


Vulnerable

by B_eden



Category: Benjaminutes - Fandom, Tales From Riftdale, The Riftdale Chronicles (Web Series)
Genre: Begging, Blasphemy, Blood, Bondage, Drug Use, Fear, Fear Play, First Time, Hostage Situation, Kidnapping, Knife Play, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Stockholm’s syndrome, Terrorizing, Trust, Trust Kink, Vulnerability, disrespecting religion, drugged person, fear kink, kidnapper/hostage, switch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 23:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18861106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_eden/pseuds/B_eden
Summary: Spoilers for the end of chapter one! This picks up right after Bart tells Christian they’re not friends anymore, and he hangs the phone up on him while Christian’s mind has been wiped, and Christian doesn’t even seem to remember Bart. If more has happened in the story line after that, this will probably veer off course from there. Christian remembers Bart and doesn't take to kindly to him saying they're not friends anymore, so he comes after his terrified hostage. Oh, and also, if you want to see a glimpse of a darker, dangerous side of Bart, read up into chapter two. What, you think it’s not possible? Have you ever met an eccentric artist? They can be creepy af. There are power play dynamics here that switch, and I’m hoping I do it justice with my exploration here.Or...Bart is Christian’s favorite god.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna know more about me as a writer and a person, (please follow I get so lonely and insecure) you can follow my:
> 
> Blog: https://caspercrowblog.wordpress.com  
> Twitter: https://twitter.com/CrowCasper  
> Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/writercaspercrow

Bart sighed as he pushed the shopping cart through the mostly empty small store. He reached for a package of paper towels, which artists never seem to have enough of at any one given time, but he knocked them to the floor when a voice came over the intercom.

 

 

Bart’s hands shook as he knelt to pick up the items and cursed that it was so clear he’d been traumatized by the ordeals Christian had put him through. He glanced around him in paranoia that the serial killer might somehow feel him thinking about him and descend upon his location out of thin air.

 

 

It wasn’t likely. Christian didn’t care anything about Bart. The priest had betrayed him. He’d pretended to be a fan of his art and had scammed people into buying his work instead. When Bart had confronted him about it, they had argued, and Christian had only seemed annoyed and unrepentant. If Bart had pushed him any further, the criminal may have hit him or even killed him. Bart had known it was time to leave. That’s when the cops showed up, and Bart took the opportunity to flee.

 

 

Christian had somehow escaped after killing one of the cops. The older cop had burst through Bart’s door not long after that and tortured the artist for information on where he could find Christian. Bart had remained loyal to the priest, only telling the cop a round-about way of tracking Christian down that would give the criminal plenty of time to evade him. Bart then called Christian and warned him in the guise of flaunting that Bart was glad he was going to eventually pay for his wickedness.

 

 

Christian had acted like he didn’t even remember Bart at all. He’d called him Bert. Bart yelled that they weren’t friends anymore. It wasn’t the safest thing to say to a serial killer who had only avoided killing him because Bart had been so agreeable and done everything Christian had told him to. Bart was petrified that Christian would track him down and finish the job, but so far, he hadn’t seen any sign of the criminal. He hadn’t even heard about him in the news going off on some new crime spree, either.

 

 

It almost hurt Bart’s feelings that he hadn’t meant enough for the priest to even seek revenge on him. Bart confessed these things to his only other friend, Clairvoyance, and Claire had told him that it sounded like Christian had his mind wiped by the organization he’d been working for. He told Bart not to be sad about it, and to be grateful that Christian didn’t remember him because he was, after all, a psychopathic murderer who probably would have slowly tortured Bart to death.

 

 

“You’re good. Don’t worry about it unless you run into him and he starts rubbing at his left eye. That means he’s trying to remember you. You don’t want him to fill in any half-blanks and go trigger happy on you. Just run if you see him, but I bet he’s long gone by now.”

 

 

“But he knows where I live.”

 

 

“He won’t remember if he doesn’t even remember you. He’d have to have a pretty obsessive attachment to even start remembering little bits and pieces, so you’d probably still be okay if you just take off before he can make sense of the deja vu when he sees you.”

 

 

Bart paid for his purchase and pretended he hadn’t gone into the small store because his anxiety was too great to go into a normal busy corporate shopping center. It was dusk out, and lately every shadow caused him to have a panic attack, so he picked up his pace back to his house. The artist closed the front door behind him and leaned back against it with a relieved sigh as if he’d just escaped an army of nightmares.

 

 

“Bart.”

 

 

His name was growled viciously through bitter lips, and Bart’s head whipped up to find Christian’s silhouette standing in the doorway of his living room. At first, he thought he had a gun dangling at his side, but on second glance it was much, much worse. The criminal was holding a drill. It was the same drill Bart had seen him use so many times to secure chains against the walls of his hideout to lock his hostages in place. The priest was rubbing a palm against his left eye as he gnashed his teeth and glared at the artist with murderous intent.

 

 

Bart screamed, dropped his groceries, and hauled ass toward the kitchen. He probably should have tried to go out his front door which was right behind him, but panic isn’t kind to frightened prey, so instead he ran deeper into his home.

 

 

“Oh no you don’t!” Christian’s voice was way too steady as he stepped right over the coffee table, lept over the couch, and caught Bart around the waist.

 

 

“NO! CHRISTIAN DON’T KILL ME! DON’T KILL ME! WE’RE FRIENDS! YOU REMEMBER DON’T YOU? WE’RE FRIENDS!”

 

 

Christian’s icy tone right next to his ear washed cold over the artist. “I specifically remember you saying that we’re NOT FRIENDS!”

 

 

“I DIDN’T MEAN IT!”

 

 

“Sounded like you meant it.” Christian arched a brow when Bart batted weakly at his arms like he had no other defense on hand at all.

 

 

“I DIDN’T TELL ANYONE WHERE TO FIND YOU! HE TORTURED ME!”

 

 

Christian stiffened. “Who tortured you?”

 

 

“THE COP! THE COP THAT I TOLD TO FIND CLAIRVOYANCE TO THEN FIND THAT ORGANIZATION YOU WERE WORKING WITH SO HE’D HAVE TO RUN AROUND TO FIND YOU BUT I DIDN’T WANT TO TELL HIM ANYTHING CHRISTIAN HE TORTURED ME! I’M SORRY! BUT I DIDN’T TELL HIM I HAVE YOU ON SPEED DIAL! I DIDN’T TELL! I SWEAR TO GOD I DIDN’T TELL, CHRISTIAN! DON’T KILL ME! I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY!”

 

 

“I bet you are sorry now, aren’t you, motherfucker?”

 

 

“NO! I DON’T WANT TO DIE! CHRISTIAN PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” Bart screamed desperately.

 

 

“SCREAM AGAIN AND I’LL DRILL YOUR FUCKING TONGUE TO THE WALL!” Christian huffed as Bart fainted and fell limp in his arms. He dragged the artist through his home, wincing with regret when all the paintings-in-progress reminded him of how much he’d wronged the man, and he hefted him onto the bed.

 

 

Bart awoke with a start some time later. He tried to clutch his mouth from where he’d had nightmares of Christian drilling his tongue to the wall, but his wrists snapped to a halt when they yanked against the chains. “Oh, dear lord! Oh, fuck! It really happened!” He shivered as he heard movement in the living room in response to his voice, and he cursed himself for making noise. Christian braced an arm on the doorway as he aimed a deadly glare in his direction.

 

 

Bart summoned his courage to straighten his back indignantly. “So, I’m just another of the expendable hostages now?” He rattled the chains and looked away from him as he locked his jaw. “I see I’m not in the basement, though. Any reason for that?” Anything. He wanted Christian to give him anything to feed his hope or help put a Band-Aid over the emotional bullet wound through his heart.

 

 

Christian ground out his words. “Figured you’d appreciate the mattress.” Bart almost relaxed his shoulders. “You have any idea how much I can make in a day if I whore you out and don’t even have to give you breaks between customers?” There was a knock at the door.

 

 

“C-C-Christian?!” Bart’s eyes were impossibly wide as the serial killer turned away from him while rubbing at his eye again. Bart’s voice was small as panic clamped around his lungs. “Christian p-please don’t let anyone hurt me!” The chains clanked as he tried to reach out to him. “Christian!”

 

 

“Be quiet in here. I mean it. Not a sound.”

 

 

Bart drew his knees towards his chest and edged closer to the wall to give his arms more room to hug his legs. He stayed frozen there staring toward the doorway as he listened to Christian opening the front door to what sounded like two men. Their laughter rang through Bart’s house and chased a chill down the artist’s spine as he curled in tighter on himself.

 

 

More than fifteen minutes passed, and it sounded like Christian was buying drugs from the men. Bart could only pray that _he_ wasn’t the payment for those drugs, but things looked bleak when Christian rounded the corner with one of the men following him as the stranger rambled on about drama going on between people Bart didn’t know. Christian didn’t look at him as Bart turned his face into the wall and covered his head to hide from the horrors of his situation.

 

 

The artist burst into tears and whispered, “Please...”

 

 

“I told you to keep quiet. Bert.” Christian was fumbling with something that included snaps, and then there was the sound of paper as the priest counted.

 

 

Bart ventured to peek over his arm when the man thanked Christian and their voices got further away from Bart’s bedroom. Within moments, the front door closed, and things were quiet again. Bart looked to where Christian had been standing and saw that Christian’s wallet was back on the side table. He had only come in there to retrieve his money to pay the guy. Bart jumped when Christian made a whooping noise as he inhaled his cocaine.

 

 

Bart’s frightened eyes landed warily on the priest when he strolled back into his bedroom with far more bounce this time. The artist shrank back as he knelt onto the bed and leaned over him to unlock the chains.

 

 

“Come on. You can go to the bathroom, and then we’ll get you something to eat.” He clutched painfully hard onto Bart’s arm and shoved him into the hallway.

 

 

Bart stumbled as Christian pushed against his back and slammed the door behind him. The artist immediately turned toward the tiny window, but his shoulders fell when he saw that Christian had heavily screwed a board in place over top of it. Bart was as quiet as he could be as he stood on the ledge and tested the board. He tried his best to work his fingers into an opening, but he only managed to pluck the board out enough for it to thump noisily back into place.

 

 

Bart yelped when Christian opened the door with a heavy sigh and a knowing glare. Bart started to try and make an excuse, but it was fairly obvious that he’d been up to no good when he was still standing on the ledge of the tub with his hands braced on the window.

 

 

“Really, Bart? That was, what? Like thirty fucking seconds? You couldn’t even wait longer than that before pissing me off?” He wrenched Bart’s arm and slammed him to sit on the toilet. “Give me your dominant hand. Now, Bart!”

 

 

Bart’s hand lifted along with his shoulders, and Christian clasped onto his wrist firmly. He gripped Bart’s ring and pinky finger in a solid fist.

 

 

“Look.” Christian demanded when Bart clenched his eyes shut and turned his head away. “Look what you’re making me do to you.”

 

 

“Christian, don’t hurt me!” Bart sobbed as he clutched the side of the sink for emotional support. “Please don’t!” He cried out when Christian twisted his hold as if getting a better grip.

 

 

“Look.”

 

 

“I don’t want to watch! Christian, I can’t! Don’t hurt me, please! I’ll be good! I’m sorry!” He wavered dangerously as a faint threatened to overtake him.

 

 

 Christian’s fist slowly released him and instead he felt the priest’s fingers gently mapping along his joints. Christian watched the artist’s body quiver for some time before he spoke. “Alright.” He tugged at one of the joints painlessly but with frightening pressure to drive in his point before carefully massaging the digit again to soothe the artist from the yelp it had caused him. “Now do what you need in here because you won’t get another chance for some time.”

 

 

Bart didn’t even consider that he should try to find some kind of weapon or something to pick the locks with until Christian was patting him down to make sure he hadn’t done so when they got back to Bart’s room. That’s when a horrific realization dawned on him. Bart had a pocket knife on him. He often used it to get into art supplies, to sharpen his pencils, or even used it in the creative process. He’d simply crammed it in his back pocket earlier that day before taking a break to go to the store.

 

 

Bart was completely petrified when Christian tensed after his hand slid into his back pocket to fish around. Christian leaned back to look in his eyes, held up the knife for them both to see, and then slowly ran his thumb along the weapon to click it open.

 

 

“Th-that was already there, Christian.” Bart gulped as Christian tilted his head with an unreadable expression. “I w-was using it earlier...f-for...”

 

 

“For...” Christian was highly skeptical.

 

 

“For peeling the dried paint off the palette. Th-there’s p-paint on it, Christian. Look at it.” Bart cursed because he only then remembered he’d cleaned it off.

 

 

Christian hummed apathetically as he turned the knife for inspection. It did have paint worked deep into the crevices, but not along the blade or anywhere obvious like Bart had implied. He flipped it closed. “Lie down. Go on. It’s alright. Hands up. There you go.”

 

 

Bart almost felt safe as his wrists were clamped into the chains, but then Christian tugged him down the mattress so that his arms were pulled over his head, and the criminal straddled him.

 

 

“So, you want to stab me, then?” Christian ripped the knife up Bart’s shirt and then proceeded to cut away the fabric. Bart screamed at the violent motions before going quiet when Christian paused to give him a warning look that shifted over to the drill and back to the artist’s mouth. “You ever stabbed a guy before, Bart?”

 

 

Bart looked at him incredulously. “D-do I look like a man who’s ever hurt anyone?”

 

 

Christian leaned in close, his eyes going darker. “Do I?”

 

 

Yes. Yes, Christian did look like a man who had hurt someone before, and he looked like a man who was going to hurt someone now. Bart didn’t have to guess on any of that, however, because he’d seen Christian cut people, both to kill them and sometimes just to carve them up a little bit to drive in a point. Bart was making a steady stream of mewling noises as Christian leaned back and traced the knife along his skin.

 

 

“You don’t have any scars.” Christian noted distantly. “Look at this smooth fucking skin. Why didn’t I ever cut you?”

 

 

“I...” Bart shuddered as the cool blade traveled across his skin. “I r-really don’t know. B-but please don’t do it now.” He clenched his eyes shut and tried to bury his face in his arm to escape the threat. “Christian...don’t hurt me.”

 

 

“You think that works? Asking me not to hurt you?” Christian’s lids were heavy as he braced the knife over the artist’s nipple and pressed his thumb next to it as if he was about to peel it right off his body. “You do it a lot.” And Christian kept hearing him. He kept stopping. He had yet to hurt him physically in any way that he could remember. “Does that mean it works when you beg me not to hurt you, or that I hurt you all the time and you’re expecting it?” He glanced up to Bart’s face as the artist sniffled. He was crying again. Bart was too afraid to answer him.

 

 

Christian moved the blade down his body, and Bart’s stomach sucked in desperately against the tickle. Christian’s shift in position caused him to press down against Bart’s crotch, and the priest tensed when he realized the artist was prodding against him.

 

 

“What the fuck?” Christian moved to the side and tore open the clasp on Bart’s pants. The artist whimpered, reddened dramatically, and hid deeper in his arm as he felt the cool air along his legs as the priest yanked his pants away. “Is this a fucking game to you, motherfucker?”

 

 

“N-no!” Bart’s lungs stuttered as he sobbed harder and pulled his knees up in a futile attempt to hide himself. “No, Christian! I’m sorry! It’s j-just a submissive response! I’m sorry! I’m just scared! I’m sorry!”

 

 

“With a filthy fucking mind like yours, you’d probably like it if I pimped you out. Maybe that’s why I haven’t carved you up yet.”

 

 

“No! Christian! Please don’t! Don’t let anyone hurt me! I’ve...I’ve never been with anyone before. I’ve never been touched. Don’t...don’t let anyone hurt me.”

 

 

Christian dug his palm into his left eye as nagging memories bit at the back of his head. “I’ve touched you before. I know I have.”

 

 

“W-w-what? When?” Bart looked to him with an expression of confusion that slowly melded into terror. “W-when I was drunk? That really happened? You...you really did that? It wasn’t just a dream?! You! You molested me! Christian! How c-could you?!” His crying increased. “I trusted you!”

 

 

Christian frowned at him and continued to rub at his eye as he fought to remember the details. Christian had taken Bart with him to buy drugs. They’d wound up in a rundown old house filled with people drunk or high off their minds, and he remembered seeing the artist curled up on the far side of a smelly old couch with his drawing book in his lap. Bart’s knees were pulled to his chest as he focused down on his sketching. He was trying to avoid looking around them. Why?

 

 

Christian remembered it all now. The atmosphere was lazy and casual. There was a porn playing on a big screen TV across from them. A couple on the floor was screwing noisily, but not as loud as the volume on the television that blared the most obscene sounds imaginable around the living room.

 

 

Bart was drinking. There hadn’t been any milk or even any bottled water, and Christian hadn’t trusted the tap water when Bart had told him he was thirsty. Instead, the priest had sat an unopened bottle of whiskey in the artist’s lap. Bart had ignored it at first, but then their surroundings began to get to him, and out of fear and anxiety, he had begun to take larger and longer gulps from the bottle as the night progressed.

 

 

It had been goddamn adorable, watching Bart’s body language as he sank down and his expression became slightly goofy. The book tumbled out of his hands as his head fell back against the couch. The artist fell into a fit of lethargic giggling as the couple on the floor went for another round. Christian picked up the drawing pad and blinked in confusion. The image was intense, and erotic, and beautiful. Holy shit, it was damn good. Why didn’t the artist draw like that when he was actually focusing and trying to make his shitty art?

 

 

“They’re...like...r-rabbits.” Bart hiccuped as his lips curled into a lovely, unguarded smile. “Bunny. Rabbits.” He wafted his arm dramatically around the room. “Rabbits, Christian, have no shame. As you...as you can see. With exhibit A.” He failed to straighten his back as much as usual when he was trying to show off a work of art, but his hand did this little twirling gesture that Christian was very familiar with.

 

 

Bart cleared his throat as he motioned toward the television. “And exhibit B! Oh, my! Well. Exhibit B is just out of control. Completely out of control, Christian.” He snorted before clamping his hand over his mouth and warming into another fit of laughter. Another couple came into the room and settled far too close to the artist.

 

 

“Come here.” Christian pulled Bart toward him. He meant for him to simply come a little closer so that Bart wouldn’t be frightened when he noticed the newcomers on the floor next to his feet. Instead, Bart stretched out along the couch on his back and leaned across Christian’s lap. The artist blinked up at him, completely relaxed, as Christian scowled down at him.

 

 

“Oh!” Bart did a double-take toward the newcomers. “I see Exhibit...um. E. Exhibit E has arrived.”

 

 

“That would be C.”

 

 

“What?” Bart rattled his head and then smirked in a doofy manor when the room spun pleasantly as a result.

 

 

“You’re on Exhibit C, now.”

 

 

“Oh, no! Exliblit...Eblixit...Eslibit B is-”

 

 

“C.”

 

 

“Explicit C...is over here.” He wafted down his own body. Christian’s eyes widened when he followed the motion to see the tent in Bart’s pants.

 

 

The priest glanced around the room with the sudden urge to murder anyone who might be looking, and then he found his hand fumbling along the back of the couch to free the crochet blanket there to cover the artist. Bart titled the bottle back to his lips, and then whined when Christian pulled it away.

 

 

“That’s enough of that.” Christian sat the bottle on the side table before finishing arranging the blanket.

 

 

“You, sir, are blocking everyone’s view of slibbet E. Slibbet...D.”

 

 

“C.”

 

 

“Eslibbet C.” Bart pressed his palm against his cock, moaning far too loud. “Everyone wants to see this work of art-” Bart snorted as if what he’d said was completely ridiculous, but he winced in confusion when Christian clamped his hand on his wrist and pulled his arm up to his chest. Bart looked up to him and tried to understand why Christian seemed so annoyed. “Christian? I’m s-sorry.” He seemed so genuinely regretful that Christian rested a hand on his cheek to stop him before he started to cry.

 

 

“You’re fine, Bart.” Christian’s heart jumped when Bart’s lids drooped lustfully, and he leaned into the priest’s touch. The artist’s lips parted, and he made the most maddening little wanton sound. It was then Christian realized he’d dropped his hand back to his cock.

 

 

Christian meant to stop him, but he found his own rebellious hand dipping beneath the covers and working Bart’s button free instead. Bart’s head lolled to the side as he began to lose track of reality.

 

 

“Ca. Rish. Chan.” Bart chided him halfheartedly, and his mouth fell open in shock as the criminal dove his hand beneath the elastic of his underwear. The artist’s face rolled to look at him, and he blinked rapidly as the world spun around him. When he next said Christian’s name, he whispered it breathlessly because the priest’s fingers had curled around his length. “Oh...Christian...”

 

 

Christian’s heart was thudding painfully hard as the artist began to writhe helplessly in his lap. The woman in the porno was making this lame, noisy, nasally cry at a steady pace, and Bart snorted and suddenly raised his voice to mimic her. It sounded so fucking much better when the artist did it, but Christian quickly put a stop to it by clamping his hand violently over his mouth to shut him up before he drew attention to himself.

 

 

Bart opened his mouth wide to try and squirm away, and in the process two of Christian’s fingers grazed just inside his lips. Bart sucked his fingers into his mouth and twirled his tongue around them. Christian hissed and bucked his hips at the sudden shock of the soft, warm heat surrounding the digits. Bart groaned needy and his eyes rolled back.

 

 

“Fffuck...” Christian swallowed heavily as his other hand unconsciously sped up between the artist’s legs.

 

 

Bart’s lids flew open when Christian twisted his hand around him, and the artist called out around his fingers. “Ughn...Chwithan...fwuck...ugh...gwod...” His hand clenched in Christian’s shirt as his other hand reached up to cling to the couch arm. “Hah...” A high-pitch whine gurgled around Christian’s fingers as the artist arched up, and then he sucked around his fingers more greedily.

 

 

“Jesus...fuck...” Christian gulped in air as he watched him fall apart in his lap.

 

 

Bart’s mouth fell open wide as his body shivered with abandon. His glossy, drunken eyes went even more distant as he stiffened with his climax all too soon. Christian stroked him through it thoroughly before finally slowing his hand to squeeze against him possessively. Bart’s tense body collapsed into a limp heap as he panted desperately to catch his breath.

 

 

Bart had fallen unconscious then, and Christian had spent an achingly long time staring at his lips and wondering just how dramatically the artist would respond to his tongue in his mouth if he would dare to kiss him when was completely aware. He probably wouldn’t respond so eagerly as he did while drunk. He’d probably be repulsed and terrified.

 

 

Back in present day, Christian stopped rubbing his eye and stared down at the puffy-eyed artist with an unreadable expression while he relived the event in his mind. He found himself wondering again, as he watched Bart pull air in through his frightened, parted lips, if the man would respond to him with disgust.

 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’ve never been touched?” Christian massaged his aching head.

 

 

“W-when would that ever come up in conversation? And w-why would it matter to you, anyway?” Bart clenched his legs tighter and failed to find an angle that made him feel hidden from the criminal’s eyes. “Christian! C-cover me, please! Leave me with at least some dignity!” The artist wept when stating his discomfort only caused the priest’s eyes to shamelessly scan down his body.

 

 

Bart drew in a sharp breath when Christian aggressively pushed his knees down to straighten his legs. He was still holding the knife as he pressed his hands against either side of Bart’s hips to command him to stay flat.

 

 

“C-Christian p-p-please don’t cut me! Christian! Christian!” Bart’s entire body had gone stiff as he stared toward the ceiling in terror. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he anticipated pain. He finally braved to look down, attempting to bend his knees again, but then Christian lifted the knife to show it to him while he stared at his cock. Bart’s legs went completely limp as he fainted.

 

 

Christian huffed humorously as he grumbled to himself. “What I meant by that was that I wasn’t fucking forgetting that I was holding a knife while I touched you, idiot. It wasn’t a threat.” Bart’s body was pliant as Christian lifted his leg and ducked under it to kneel between his thighs. The criminal waited patiently then for him to wake up. He traced his fingertips along the inside of Bart’s legs and up along his hips. He lazily traced a circle around his navel, keeping the knife far away from Bart’s flesh in anticipation of the artist jolting when he finally awoke. He was correct.

 

 

“Oh god!” Bart yanked against the chains and unsuccessfully tried to press his thighs closed only to be prevented from doing so by Christian’s body. “C-Christian?” His hazy eyes quickly widened as his situation came back to him. He looked down to inspect his body for damage, and then looked up to Christian’s face in trepidation. “W-what are you going to do to me?”

 

 

“Good question.” Christian sighed as if he hadn’t given the matter enough thought. He crossed his arms and tapped the blade against his lips.

 

 

Bart’s jaw trembled. “Christian, I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry...”

 

 

“You know you don’t have anything to actually fucking be sorry for, right? I mean, I can’t even remember everything, but I know enough with what I’ve got to fill in the blanks that I’m the fucking bastard here. Why are you apologizing to your fucking kidnapper?”

 

 

“It doesn’t matter. If you think I’ve done something to be sorry for then you’ll treat me accordingly. If you haven’t noticed, I’m at quite a disadvantage against you in every way possible. If you want me to be sorry, Christian, then I am so, so sorry!”

 

 

Christian feathered his fingers along Bart’s leg in the way he’d done while he was unconscious. The artist sucked in a breath, and then a deeper breath when Christian trailed the knife against his skin. Bart turned his face away and clenched his eyes shut.

 

 

“There’s nothing you can do to make me act any certain way, Bart. I’m going to do what I want no matter what you do, so just relax.”

 

 

“Th-that’s supposed to be comforting?” Bart trembled violently. “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

 

“Because I like the way you sound when you beg me. I like the way you shake for me.”

 

 

“This is humiliating, Christian. Please cover me. Please stop putting the knife against me. Please. Christian. I’m c-cold.” Bart whined when Christian shifted and leaned forward to drop over top of him. The artist leaned away from the side where he’d seen the knife go, and then he shivered when Christian pressed his mouth against his stomach and exhaled hot air against him. The priest’s clothing caressed warm against Bart’s thighs as he slowly crawled up his body, barely pressing down against him as he went.

 

 

A tremor traveled up Bart’s spine as Christian moved more fully over top of him. He didn’t realize he was arching up in seek of contact until he was whining in frustration as the priest hovered just out of reach above him. Christian held himself up with one arm and angled the knife toward Bart’s throat. The artist sobbed and pressed his face into his arm.

 

 

“Christian...” He begged before he felt a quick, rough scrap against his skin; almost like Christian had lit a match on him. He yelped, not having any way to know that Christian had only skimmed the side of the blade against him as if he’d been shaving a tiny square patch along his throat. “Christian! D-did you just cut me?”

 

 

Christian closed the knife and sat it to the side. He was eyeing Bart’s neck where he’d swiped the blade, and he allowed the artist to think he was injured.

 

 

“C-Christian? Did...did you kill me? Am I bleeding? Christian am I going to die?! Christian?!” The criminal lowered his hips to roll against him, and Bart gasped as his head fell back to further expose his throat to him. “Christian, I’m scared! I’m scared...”

 

 

The priest latched his mouth over the unharmed space of skin and sucked gently. He tucked a hand under Bart’s arm to pull it away from his head for better access, and his body pressed flush against the artist as he lowered to his elbows to achieve the angle. Bart keened as he wriggled beneath him, and Christian hummed with satisfaction against his throat.

 

 

“W-why, Christian? Why are you killing me?”

 

 

“Killing you.” Christian murmured against his ear. “Is that what it feels like I’m doing to you?”

 

 

“Christian, don’t let me bleed to death! Please, take me to the hospital! Y-you could just drop me off at the door!”

 

 

“You really think I’m just laying on you and lapping up your fucking blood, Bart?”

 

 

“Don’t let me die! Christian, why are you doing this to me? How could you? I loved you! I love you, Christian! How can you do this to someone that loves you?” Bart was crying too hard to notice that the priest had stilled against him.

 

 

Christian pushed himself back away from him to kneel between his legs again as he clawed at his left eye. He grabbed for the knife and flicked it open before returning to rubbing at his eye while juggling it.

 

 

“Careful! Christian! Don’t stab your eye out!” Bart whimpered when Christian moved his hands to look at him incredulously for his confusing concern. The criminal’s knuckles were turning white as he clutched the handle of the knife and grit his teeth. His eyes darted to Bart’s stomach, and the artist sucked in as he braced for him to drive the blade into his vital organs. Christian’s arm jerked as he stopped himself from doing just that, and then he clawed at his eye in distress.

 

 

“Do I...” Christian growled in frustration. “Do I love you?” The question seemed more directed at himself than the artist.

 

 

Bart didn’t know the answer. He assumed Christian wasn’t capable of love. He tried to shift where he could see the covers beneath his neck. It felt wet, but he was starting to suspect it was only where Christian’s tongue had been lapping at him and not the feel of his own blood. He looked back to Christian, and the criminal was staring at him in a deep trance as his brain continued to burn with resurfacing memories. He sat there staring for a long time, and Bart’s distressed sniffles increased as he fretted over both of their fates.

 

 

Christian’s voice was distracted as he ran his hands through his hair. “You’re fine, Bart. I didn’t cut you.” Once he was finally able to look away from the artist, his large pupils shifted around the room rapidly. When he next spoke, his tone sounded painfully lost. “Bart?”

 

 

“C-can you please cover me?”

 

 

“Why?” Christian looked down at him again. He tossed the knife to the side, and then his hands dropped to unfasten his pants.

 

 

Bart’s lids fluttered closed as his eyes rolled back. “Oh. Oh, my. Okay.” He swallowed heavily, but it didn’t work to stop him from bursting into another fit of tears. “Christian. Please don’t make it hurt.”

 

 

“Bart. I’m not going to stop being a complete piece of garbage. I can’t. I don’t know how. I...I don’t know how...” Christian shoved his pants down to his knees and fell back over the artist. They both groaned as he pumped their hips together before framing Bart’s face in his hands to get him to look at him. “Bart.” He sounded desperate, and the artist opened his eyes curiously. Christian was on the verge of panic.

 

 

“Yes, Christian?” Bart was trying his best to hold it together as Christian fell apart in what he could only assume was a psychotic episode that may or may not have been caused by or exasperated by the drugs. Bart sucked in a breath when Christian moved against him again.

 

 

“I can’t...I can’t change.”

 

 

“It...it’s okay, Christian. You can’t help it. It’s not your f-fault.” Bart choked on his last word when Christian rolled his hips again. “Th-there’s no rush, Christian. You’re outside of the law and outside of morality altogether at this point. You can think it out. We can think it all out _together_. You can take your time. And y-you can take your time doing _this_ , too. R-right? Take your time and n-not hurt your f-friend?”

 

 

“Bart?” Christian’s eyes looked so urgent as he melded into a steadier rhythm.

 

 

Bart’s eyes were quickly going out of focus as he became distracted by the erotic pressure. “Y-yes C-Christian? Oh! F-fuck. Christian.” He gulped. “That. Is feeling. Christian. It’s g-good...” His limbs were lax from the exhaustion of continued high-anxiety, and his body was responding eagerly to the shift to arousal as Christian moved insistently against him.

 

 

“Bart!” Christian’s fingers clenched against his face bringing the artist’s full attention back to his desperate features. “Keep loving me anyway.”

 

 

Bart nodded as he fought to breath which was difficult with Christian holding his face so firmly. “Okay. Christian. I love you. I do.”

 

 

“Don’t leave.”

 

 

“If you want me, I won’t leave you.”

 

 

“I want you.” Christian took his time lowering his lips to his as he searched Bart’s frightened eyes for any sign of disgust. When Bart didn’t try to pull away, and his lids drooped as if he was swooning instead, Christian kissed him. The priest hummed pitifully when Bart groaned into his mouth.

 

 

Bart quickly became lost in the consuming kiss as Christian seemed to have no trouble going from hot, to cold, and scorching hot again in their encounter. The artist’s eyes flew open and he yelped when Christian’s hand clamped firmly against his side, because at first, he thought the criminal had stabbed him. Bart shuddered when Christian instead tucked his hand beneath him and ran it down beneath his backside to brace him to enhance the friction between them.

 

 

Christian tore his mouth away and panted into Bart’s ear. “Fuck, I’m gonna fucking come to this.” He was a little confused as to how he’d gotten so worked up to be so close to climaxing while simply rutting against another body. “Fuck. Bart. Fuck, I’m going to come...”

 

 

Bart was relieved for even the insinuation that Christian was satisfied with not cramming himself inside his unprepared body in the height of impatient passion, and the emotional reassurance he’d received was greatly helping him forget that his arms were chained over his head.

 

 

Christian groaned when his words caused Bart to call out his name and arch up to him as the artist’s body tensed with his release. He felt the warmth emptying between them, and he saw no reason to hold back his own pleasure. His thrusts jolted harder as he pushed himself over the edge, capturing Bart’s mouth and moaning low as the world went fuzzy around him.

 

 

The kiss became far lazier as Christian continued to claim his mouth long after they were finished. Bart was passive beneath him, but his tongue eventually ventured to return some of the motions Christian was unconsciously teaching him.

 

 

Christian released his hold on Bart’s ass, but not before squeezing it a little too hard to make him whimper first. He bent his knees to raise up and let the artist better catch his breath. Bart’s eyes studied him warily, but he didn’t ask what Christian’s next plans for him were.

 

 

Christian sat back and fastened his own pants, but then he removed his shirt after looking at the mess along the artist’s body. Bart blinked gratefully and lifted when Christian finally moved to pull the covers down for him. The chains rattled drawing Christian’s eyes up to Bart’s arms. He picked up the knife and then dug in his pocket for the keys to the chains.

 

 

Christian settled alongside the artist beneath the covers before releasing him from his binds. Bart massaged his wrists and squeezed along his numb arms to get the blood flowing properly. He tilted his head to look at Christian who was lying on his side watching him. Bart rolled towards him, propped himself up on an elbow, and lifted a hand to touch his face. Christian leaned into the touch and scooted closer to him.

 

 

Bart hummed pleasantly when Christian kissed his shoulder, and then he looked down as he felt the priest feeling along his arm and fumbling with his hand. Christian rested his forehead against Bart’s shoulder as he returned his knife to him. It was a peace offering; an apology. The criminal was tense as he draped an arm over the artist’s waist and moved closer still.

 

 

Bart was curious if there was paint on the blade as he’d formerly thought, and he was also curious if Christian had cut him. There would surely be blood on it if he had. He didn’t put any thought into the motion as he flicked open the blade to inspect it. It didn’t occur to him that Christian could think him capable of harming him, but then the priest’s arm wrapped more tightly around his waist, and his hand clenched against Bart’s back as he burrowed flush against his body.

 

 

Christian’s every muscle went tense as he leaned away from the gentle clicking noise the knife had made just behind him, and he sucked in a breath as he froze in place clinging to the artist. When Bart didn’t jam the blade into him right away, Christian tried to gulp in a breath, but it quickly turned into desperate hyperventilating as he ran through his mind what a stupid idea it was to arm his hostage and bare himself to him so vulnerably right after terrorizing him.

 

 

Christian should have been grabbing his arm, twisting it back away from him, and pinning Bart to the bed, but instead he found himself pressing his lips back to Bart’s shoulder as he became lightheaded from the rapid breathing.

 

 

Bart thought about comforting him, but he was too fascinated that the criminal wasn’t retaliating. He silently closed the knife before feathering the handle down along his back. Christian strained closer to him as he half-laughed and half-moaned that his hostage was going to fucking play with him first if he meant to hurt him. A tremor rolled down his back at the deceptively gentle caress.

 

 

Christian swallowed heavily. “Do you need help?”

 

 

“With what?” Bart murmured against the top of his head.

 

 

Christian pressed his forehead harder against him to try and keep his failing composure. He slowly unwound his arm and began to point to different places on his exposed body without looking.

 

 

“If you’re wanting to force me to the hospital where I’ll wind up waiting on death row, here. Here. Maybe here, but I bet I could get somebody to patch that up. So, here’s your best bet. If...if you just want it all to be over, go for right here. Deep. Twist it. Or pull across. Or both. It’ll still be kind of slow for me, but it’ll be final.”

 

 

Bart’s fingers fanned across his skin in each place he’d directed him, and Christian’s arm insecurely returned to cling to him as he exhaled an unsteady breath.

 

 

“What would be faster?” Bart’s voice didn’t sound as dark as his question.

 

 

“Could go with the classic throat-cutting. Maybe jam the blade in my temple or up under the base of my skull.” Christian shuddered on his exhale as Bart’s fingers sweetly trailed along the base of his skull. “I d-don’t know how strong that blade is, though. It might just break, and it would be messier trying to mercifully finish me off. You’d be better off with down here, or the throat.”

 

 

 Christian slowly relaxed the longer he felt no pain as Bart shifted between the chilly handle and his fingers as he traced gently along his body. The artist kept pressing kisses to his temple, and it helped to ease his suspense.

 

 

“Christian.” Bart dropped the knife against the mattress, but it made no sound. “Darling. I don’t need revenge. I need a shower.” He kissed his head again and left his lips against him. “You need a shower. Desperately.” The artist paused for a moment before he crooked his fingers, dug them into Christian’s back, and raked his nails downward.

 

 

“FUCK! HOLY FUCKING SHIT! FUCK!” Christian clutched him in a bruising grip as he gasped against his chest in shock. It took him several moments of hyperventilating before he realized Bart hadn’t just gutted him. “F-f-fuck! Bart! You f-fucking bastard!” He shivered out a laugh-cry mixture as he continued to curse him while Bart smoothed his hand along his skin to comfort him.

 

 

Christian rolled over and snatched up the knife as Bart pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “Give me that! F-fucking closet sadist.” He rolled back to him and immediately captured his mouth in a needy kiss.

 

 

“I’m a sadist? Christian, you threatened to drill my tongue to the wall. You chained me up and made me think you slit my throat.”

 

 

Christian’s movements were far too fluid as he pressed him back and flung himself back on top of him. “Going to chain you up again and wear out that tight little fucking virgin hole of yours.” He groaned when Bart’s eyes went wide, and he whimpered into his next kiss. Christian took pity on him, then. Possibly because he was grateful Bart hadn’t run him through. “Fine. Or we can shower.”

 

 

“Then I can make something to eat. I have macaroni.” Bart rarely saw Christian eat. The cocaine worked as an appetite suppressant, and he routinely forgot that food existed. The artist shivered when Christian hummed his agreement into his neck as his lips continued to travel across his skin as if he was already forgetting their current plan. “Christian?”

 

 

“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Christian lifted off him and pulled the artist to sit up.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna know more about me as a writer and a person, (please follow I get so lonely and insecure) you can follow my:
> 
> Blog: https://caspercrowblog.wordpress.com  
> Twitter: https://twitter.com/CrowCasper  
> Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/writercaspercrow

The serial killer was a surprisingly romantic shower partner. Right away Bart didn’t feel like Christian was scrubbing nearly thorough enough. Christian jolted when Bart turned and slopped a soapy washcloth against his chest. Bart locked his jaw as Christian frowned and looked from his chest and up to the artist a few times. The priest’s shoulders relaxed, though, and he didn’t stop him, so Bart took that to mean he had his permission to clean him.

 

 

Christian seemed fascinated by Bart’s routine as the artist went through the same motions he used on himself. Bart chuckled when Christian begrudgingly held his arms up when the artist told him to.

 

 

Christian finally spoke after Bart swiped efficiently around his privates. “That needs more cleaning.” 

 

 

Bart glanced up at him flirtatiously, and it seemed he was going to ignore him, but then he returned for another pass. Christian propped a foot on the ledge and opened his thigh with more confidence than Bart ever could have mustered in such a situation.

 

 

“Christian!” Bart chided as he worked down his thigh.

 

 

Christian opened his mouth to speak, but he sucked in a sharp breath instead when Bart dipped the cloth further back to scrub his ass. He grunted in disapproval as he clutched onto a bar, but then he murmured, “Sure you got it good?”

 

 

“Christian, you’re incorrigible.”

 

 

“You’re the one trying to finger my fucking asshole in here.”

 

 

“Christian!” How did he so often manage to twist things around and make Bart feel like he was the criminal? “I’m just making sure you don’t ruin my sheets when we go to sleep.”

 

 

“So, you’re inviting me to sleep in your bed?”

 

 

Bart blinked rapidly as he blushed. He’d assumed that Christian was giving him the whole hostage treatment and wasn’t going to walk away from him for quite some time. Now he felt a little more than desperate.

 

 

Christian took pity on him and pointed to the loofah. “Why didn’t you use that?”

 

 

Bart turned his nose up at the criminal. “That’s mine.” He held the washcloth with two fingers before dropping it between them. He turned his back to him. “And that cloth will need to be burned. There’s no cleaning it now.”

 

 

“You seemed content enough to let me scrub myself all over you earlier.”

 

 

Bart took in a breath to remind the criminal that it hadn’t been his choice, but he thought better of it because he really wanted Christian to scrub himself all over him again. He still felt guilty for thinking it, however, and he jumped when Christian’s fingers rested on his sides. The artist was confident he hadn’t managed to piss off the serial killer when he felt his mouth moving along his shoulders.

 

 

Christian yanked Bart back against him and the artist stiffened as he pressed his cock against him. Christian reached for the loofah instead of shoving him against the wall and brutalizing him, however, and Bart relaxed to the gentle attention as Christian returned the favor of washing him. Christian’s method of pulling the loofah against him, though, was far more erotic than what Bart had accomplished when he’d been touching the priest.

 

 

Bart shivered as Christian let his fingers stretch past the loofah to touch him as he trailed it across his shoulders. The artist was grateful that his shower had already been made handicap accessible before he moved in because there were plenty of handles to cling to when his legs began to wobble dangerously. His fingers curled around a bar and his eyes fluttered closed as Christian wrapped an arm in front of him and began to slowly press his soapy hand down his stomach.

 

 

Bart’s lips parted and he moaned Christian’s name when the priest’s slick hand and the soft accessory moved against his length far too thoroughly. The artist suddenly found his face pressed up against the tiles as Christian hooked a hand under his thigh and pushed his leg up onto the ledge.

 

 

“C-Christian?” Bart clenched his eyes shut as he tried to make his body relax to what he could only assume was coming. He released a shuddering breath when Christian only returned to running soap along his body as he worked his way up his leg. He didn’t realize he was whimpering with anxiety until Christian whispered against his ear to comfort him.

 

 

“Not gonna fuck you right now, Bart. Relax.” He said that, but his slick fingers were sliding along his cleft between breaks to run along his cheeks. He squeezed, and Bart’s breath stuttered.

 

 

“I d-don’t know if I b-believe you, Christian.” The artist mewled when Christian pressed his weight against him to hold him against the wall. “Christian?” His finger ghosted against his opening, and though it frightened him at first, when he continued along his body instead, Bart found he missed the touch.

 

 

“I’m just introducing the idea of fucking you, is all. Get you thinking about it.” Christian nipped at his ear as his finger returned to press a small circle around him. He hummed pleasantly when Bart pushed back against him unconsciously. He allowed the pad of his finger to dip against his hole, and Bart wasn’t done gasping his name before he moved away again.

 

 

“Why?” Bart’s head tilted back as Christian’s hand tucked around him to tug gently at his length.

 

 

The priest dipped his tongue in his ear before speaking with an impossibly heavy air of want in his voice. “Because, when I was thinking about taking you before, you didn’t ask me to stop. You just cried so fucking pretty for me and begged so fucking sweet for me not to make it hurt. And you’re still not asking me to stop, because you want my prick in you so goddamn bad, you’re trying to fuck my hand right now.”

 

 

Bart whimpered when he realized he was indeed pulsing back against the criminal as he kept working on him in the front so perfectly. The artist trembled with confusion and need when Christian kept him at a distance while only working a fingertip into him to the first knuckle. The touch wasn’t there when Bart’s hips shifted to follow it, but then he returned suddenly, sliding the digit deeper into him while stroking Bart’s cock more firmly with other hand. He left the intrusion there this time as he twisted his hand around him expertly, and he bent his finger inside him in a way that made Bart cry out in shock.

 

 

Far too much water showered into Bart’s mouth as he scrambled for the handles, but in the end, Christian was the only thing really holding him up as his vision burst into fireworks and he emptied himself against the wall. The artist gasped for breath and sputtered out water as Christian pressed his lips against his temple.

 

 

“You’d better stop making all those choking noises if you don’t want to go again.”

 

 

Bart glanced over his shoulder, and that’s when he noticed all the red dripping down Christian’s face from his nose onto Bart’s shoulder. Bart looked down. He was covered in blood. “Christian! You’re bleeding!” He turned towards him, but Christian only frowned as if this wasn’t news to him.

 

 

“You’re just now noticing that?” He snorted halfheartedly as Bart scrambled for the washcloth. “That’s what happens when you put a coke addict in a steamy shower and make him breath hard.”

 

 

Christian hummed with interest as Bart knelt down. Before he could stop himself, he nudged a foot against the artist to knock him over and prevent him from standing back up before he was finished appreciating him from that angle. He wasn’t disappointed with the effect. Bart scoffed in outrage and lifted his hand to try and shield his face from the spray of water. It didn’t work, and he was forced to breathe through his mouth while squinting up at him as he tried to read the criminal to decide if he posed any current danger to him.

 

 

Christian was touching himself while he looked down at him, but at least the blood gushing from his nose had slowed quite a bit. “Christian! You’re completely shameless!”

 

 

“Shame?” Christian grumbled. “You want me to pray about it or something?”

 

 

Bart was becoming more aware of just how often Christian caused his mouth to drop open in shock when he kept inhaling water throughout their shower every time it happened. He quickly admonished the criminal. “Ca. Rish. Chan! That’s...that’s...”

 

 

Christian groaned. He fucking loved it when Bart got all flustered and offended. “Let’s see.” He was highly distracted with the view, and if he’d had any shame, that would have been the time to feel it as his hand worked more rapidly between his legs. “Heavenly father...”

 

 

Bart made a high-pitched strangled noise as he desperately tried to angle his hand against the water flow to better see Christian’s face. He wasn’t seriously going to pray while they were like this, was he?

 

 

Christian continued. “Please forgive Bart for panting like a hungry dog in heat while he blasphemously kneels worshiping my cock waiting for me to make a mess all over his pretty face.”

 

 

“CHRISTIAN!”

 

 

“I know. It’s terrible. You’re a sinner, Bart. Such a filthy sinner. I’m about to give you some absolution, though, so don’t lose any sleep over-F-FUCK!” Christian clamped onto the bar as Bart pushed to his knees and swallowed his cock. “OH GOD! Fuck...yes...”

 

 

Christian’s hand tangled in Bart’s hair as his head fell back and his hips thrust forward. He groaned rather than apologized when it caused Bart to make more choking sounds. He almost smirked about it, but then Bart hummed around him like he was enjoying himself rather than just acting out of some desperate hostage instinct to please his kidnapper, and Christian lost focus as his release slammed through him unexpectedly.

 

 

“Fuck, Bart!” Christian’s voice cracked as Bart’s fingers clenched against his hips to pull him closer. He took him deeper as he swallowed through his release. “Oh, my fucking god, baby...”

 

 

Christian looked down at him as they both gasped for breath. The criminal had managed to take a step or two back during that, and Bart was finally out of the direct spray of water. The artist was still clinging to his hips and looking up at him like he was the god of his world. That wasn’t surprising to Christian coming at him from a hostage mind frame, but he was more concerned with how he personally felt about Bart’s loving attention on him. He’d managed not to murder this man so far, but he had his doubts he could come anything close to living up to the person Bart deserved for him to be. Christian rested a hand on the artist’s face affectionally, and the gesture clashed with the darkness in his expression.

 

 

The priest ran two fingers through a splotch of blood before he made the sign of a cross over Bart. The artist whined as he dragged the blood across his forehead before returning his hand to cup his face like he wanted to hold him there and appreciate his work. Bart wanted to berate him over it, but the serial killer seemed a little too serious at that moment as he feathered his thumb against his cheek.

 

 

Christian helped Bart to stand, and they cleaned away the new mess. After drying off, Bart moved to leave the bathroom while Christian was still climbing into his clothes. The criminal instinctively clamped a hand on Bart’s arm to stop him, but then he slowly released him and nodded his approval for the artist to do whatever he’d been planning. The criminal still hurried into his own clothing, though, and he just so happened to pass by Bart’s bedroom to get something. He mumbled that he’d forgotten what it had been, and then went to the living room as if it hadn’t been obvious he was checking to make sure Bart hadn’t bolted.

 

 

Bart cooked for them as he’d suggested. He heard Christian snorting and whooping in the other room as he inhaled more cocaine. The outcry sounded muffled, and Bart smiled as he realized Christian had buried his face in a pillow, or in the couch, or something of the sort, to avoid making a sudden loud noise that might cause Bart to faint onto the stove.

 

 

Bart shoved a drawer closed after digging through the utensils. He didn’t realize it might sound like a door closing or opening until Christian skidded against the linoleum with his gun drawn as he prepared to chase Bart down through the neighborhood. He narrowed his eyes at Bart when the artist only turned to look at him while holding the scissors against the cheese packet. The priest pointed at him with the hand that wasn’t holding the gun as he backed out of the room. Bart found it sweet that he hadn’t pointed the gun at him for once while he was waving it around.

 

 

They ate, though Christian seemed to get distracted after only a few bites with staring at a place on the wall as if he was angry with the nail-hole. Bart was fairly certain it wasn’t because he didn’t like the food, however, so he took comfort in that as he finished eating and retreated to his room to dig through some art supplies for his next project.

 

 

Bart huffed when he realized his color pencils were insanely unorganized. They got that way from time to time, so he surrendered to the fact he needed to arrange them to more easily find the shades he’d inevitably be searching for and tearing his hair out in the process if they remained this way. He sat on the end of his bed and began to shift through them.

 

 

It was about half an hour before Christian strode in with his gun. Bart tensed as the serial killer exuded his normal agitated and aggressive body language as he stared at him from only a couple feet away.

 

 

Bart cleared his throat and tried to remain calm. “Y-yes, Christian?” He forced his eyes off the gun and back to his pencils. His hand froze as Christian plucked out a pencil and dropped it into what should have been a clearly wrong side of a divider. Bart sighed and moved it to the correct space. Christian waited for almost forty seconds before he repeated the technique. “M-must you always bully me so?” Bart pursed his lips as he moved the pencil where it belonged.

 

 

Christian’s fingers dug deeper into the organizer, and he held up a small tube of Vaseline. He hummed knowingly, and Bart scoffed.

 

  
“That’s for art! I use it for-”

 

 

“Uh huh.” Christian dropped it back in place and moved another pencil.

 

 

“C-Christian!” Bart was flustered now as he tried to process where the pencil had come from and where he would want it to be.

 

 

“Anal.”

 

 

“E-excuse me?”

 

 

“You’re a little anal about that shit sometimes, aren’t you?”

 

 

“No. I’m simply being organized.”

 

 

Bart relaxed his shoulders as Christian sat the gun on a flimsy side table with the barrel facing away from them like Bart had so many times requested. The criminal plopped down closer to the head of the bed.

 

 

“An artist’s brain is busy enough during the creative process without the burden of shifting through a chaos in his media.” Bart wafted his hand dramatically towards some of his other supplies.

 

 

Christian’s dark eyes followed the motion before he returned the large pupils to the artist. “Speaking of anal,” he grumbled, and Bart straightened with anxiety. “What do I gotta do?”

 

 

“W-what do you mean?” Bart’s throat went dry and he found himself leaning far too close to his organizer as he failed to stay focused on what he was trying to accomplish.

 

 

“Don’t play coy. What do I need to do to make you relax so I can claim that ass?”

 

 

“Oh! Oh, my!” Bart choked. “Christian.” He tried to look at the criminal as Christian cranked his hand in a motion to indicate he wanted Bart to continue. The intensity of his piercing eyes was far too much on him, and he hunched his shoulders and looked back to his pencils instead. “You are a bit intimidating. C-Christian.”

 

 

“How can I not seem so intimidating?” Christian studied him. “Am I forgetting that I decked you or choked you or some shit?” It wouldn’t be absurd for him to believe he’d roughed up his hostage. It was actually a little odd to see Bart shaking his head as the artist frowned in thought as he also acknowledged that, though Christian had terrorized him greatly, he hadn’t exactly brutalized him at any point.

 

 

“Maybe if you talked more about yourself? Your past, maybe?” Bart was only moving the pencils around now rather than actually making any progress with organizing them.

 

 

“That’s not a good idea. It would make everything worse.”

 

 

Bart gulped. “This, Christian. Things like this make you not seem capable of vulnerability. It’s hard to imagine a tender, gentle moment when I’ve only ever witnessed you being so much the serial killer.”

 

 

“Vulnerability.” Christian turned the word over in his head while looking down at the pencils for a long time. Bart’s hands trembled with the attention. “So, you want me vulnerable. You’re that kind of kinky fuck.”

 

 

Bart blinked rapidly and sighed as he allowed the criminal’s suggestively accusing tone to roll off him as usual. He was doing that thing again where he made Bart feel like _he_ was the strange one. Never mind that Bart’s cock twitched with interest at his words. It’s not like it was possible for them to achieve such a thing in their dynamic. Bart frowned as he tried to decide when Christian had managed to twist the word vulnerable to sound so demanding and filthy in his head. All Bart wanted was another human being to feel safe and inviting affection with. Christian made it sound like Bart was wanting something entirely different from him.

 

 

Bart flinched when he glanced over to find the criminal staring at him expectantly like he was waiting for him to fill the air with an explanation. “Christian. I’m talking about hugs and cuddling. Late night conversations about favorite movies. What are your hobbies? Things like that.”

 

 

“Are you?” Christian didn’t seem to believe him, and it made Bart bristle.

 

 

“Stop making it sound like I want...”

 

 

Christian’s lip twitched somewhere between a smirk and a snarl as he believed he was dragging some kind of confession out of the artist. “Go on, Bart. What am _I_ _making it sound_ like you want?”

 

 

“You’re making it sound like I want to chain you up and make you fret over what I’ll do to you.” It still hadn’t completely sunk in that Christian was taking him in a circle, so Bart had already said it before he realized that whatever Bart said that he believed Christian meant was supposed to be some kind of subconscious desires he was projecting on the criminal. Bart froze as he ran their conversation through his head and came to the conclusion that might have just happened.

 

 

Christian’s eyebrows rose like he was shocked with the artist, and it made Bart clench his fists. “Christian! That’s what you did to me!”

 

 

“Vengeful little thing, aren’t you? Fuck. And I’m supposed to be the intimidating one with that kind of venom dripping down your chin?”

 

 

“Christian! That’s absurd!”

 

 

“What’s absurd?”

 

 

“That...that I could intimidate you at all. Ever. I could never be frightening to you, and you know that.”

 

 

Christian straightened as if he was learning so much more than Bart could ever understand he was giving away. “And that bothers you?”

 

 

“No!” Bart was clearly upset about something, however, because he was braving turning towards him and locking his jaw. The challenging glow in Christian’s eyes both frightened and enraged him. The artist started to speak half a dozen times before giving up and rattling the organizer far to gently to actually work out any true aggression.

 

 

Christian followed the motion and then shifted back to Bart’s eyes as he continued to insist he was reading something dark from the artist. Bart whined in distress before his shoulders sank in defeat. There was nothing he could do about Christian messing with him this way, and he had no idea where the experienced con man was trying to take them anyway.

 

 

“Vulnerable.” Christian hummed as his eyes remained on him throughout his very controlled little fit. “Alright.” He sighed as if Bart had been harassing him for hours and crammed his hand in a pocket. He tossed a butterfly knife at the artist and held up the keys to the chains, jingling them to get Bart’s attention.

 

 

“If the cops bust in, or anyone else, you get to these and get me outta these chains.” He sat the keys on the little table next to his gun. “Get my gun to me, but don’t touch the trigger. Don’t aim it at either of us.” He stood and closed Bart’s bedroom door. “So they’ve got another door to go through. Remember what I told you? If the cops corner us and I can’t manage to reach you?” Bart nodded, though he was still confused about what was happening. “What do you do?”

 

 

Bart cleared his throat. “Drop to the ground and cover my head. Stare off. Don’t say anything other than I thought I was going to die, and I was so scared. Demand a lawyer. Tell the lawyer, and only the lawyer, I was a hostage and I have Stockholm’s Syndrome. Don’t tell the cops anything about anything.” Bart poked at the pencils as Christian returned to the bed.

 

 

“And they’ll try to tell you I’m turning on you and blaming you. They’ll try to say all kinds of shit, but I’m not turning on you, so don’t say anything that will incriminate yourself in any of this shit. It’s all bullshit. They just want to see if you have any dirt on me, and they’ll try to manipulate the fuck out of you even though you are a goddamn hostage who I’ve fucked with your head. Don’t let them drag you down. It’s not true.”

 

 

“W-why are we going over this, Christian? You’re scaring me.” Bart looked down as Christian pressed the expensive-looking weapon into his hands.

 

 

When he looked back to him, Christian was studying him with a mixture of concern and amusement. The criminal sighed again and held eye contact as he slowly leaned back against the pillows. He raised his arms over his head, gathering the chains and taking his time with clamping them onto his own wrists. He hesitated for what seemed like an agonizingly long moment for Christian before he clanked the second cuff into place. The criminal had seemed fairly confident until the gentle noise of that last cuff chased a shiver down his arms that ended with his lids pressing closed for several seconds as he steadied himself.

 

 

Bart took a deep breath as he was awed by the gesture. He turned toward Christian as the criminal stretched his legs out along the bed. Bart set the organizer on the mattress and scooted it toward the wall away from him.

 

 

Christian’s posture was still relaxed other than a bit of tension in his stomach and shoulders as he waited for the artist to speak. He expected a long rant about what Christian had put him through, or maybe reassurance and Bart releasing him right away, or maybe Bart would try to force simple conversation out of him now that he wasn’t afraid Christian would strike him over something mundane. He expected many things, but he had been way off the mark.

 

 

Bart worried his hands for a moment as he looked down to Christian’s knife. His expression was almost unreadable. “Where’s my knife?”

 

 

Christian arched a brow. “In this pocket. That one’s sturdier than-”

 

 

“I’m more familiar with mine.” Bart fished his knife out of Christian’s pocket as the criminal frowned curiously. “An artist’s knife is a very valuable tool. I know this one. I know exactly how long and wide it is. I know when it’s getting dull and needs attention. I know it like an extension of my fingers. I _know_ it, Christian. You understand?”

 

 

Holy fucking shit did Christian know what he meant. That wasn’t comforting. No. That was goddamn disturbing the way Bart was gazing down at his blade like it was a good friend. Bart wasn’t tossing both the knives to the side like he didn’t need a blade and speaking to Christian about favorite movies. He wasn’t giving any indication that he didn’t intend on fucking using a knife for whatever his plans were. Christian cleared his throat when his hum of affirmation came out higher than he’d meant for it to.

 

 

The priest’s body language remained calm even as his heart began to thrum with warning as he stepped back in his mind and took another good long look at the artist. Christian could reason that he wasn’t the type of guy who was comfortable with being bound, so that could possibly be pushing the criminal to freak the fuck out over nothing at all. It’s not like the artist was lunging at him or anything.

 

 

Christian relaxed when Bart reached for a pencil. “See. Sharpeners are pointless. When doing detail work you need a nice, sharp point.” His hands moved almost magically as he efficiently shaved the knife along several pencils in a row to sharpen them. The rapid, deadly precision of his capable hands caused Christian to flinch and tense up in shock.

 

 

“The fuck?” Christian frowned, impressed, as Bart held up a fan of pencils with exaggerated pride while balancing the knife on the fingers of his other hand. He fucking wiggled his fingers like he had the weight of the blade and handle memorized from every angle it could possibly slide against him.

 

 

“Yes! A starving artist, after all, must learn to utilize tools such as these. Expensive sharpeners that will do the trick are never worth the funding. They break so easily! But a knife, my dear Christian, a good blade such as this will last you quite a while.” He beamed at the blade as he dropped the pencils in place and stood to dig in a crate. His smile was gentle as he pulled out a sharpening stick, and he gazed at the knife tenderly as he grinded the blade against it.

 

 

“Fuck.” Christian didn’t say it loud enough for Bart to hear him as he came to the conclusion that he had grossly miscalculated just where to set all his pawns in this game. He was actually pretty concerned that Bart might not really have all his chess pieces present on the board. He should have guessed that. Why else would someone fall in love with Christian? What the fuck had the serial killer been thinking? And why the fuck was his dick getting hard to this?

 

 

Bart didn’t seem to notice Christian’s discomfort until he came to sit at his feet again and Christian unconsciously pulled his legs up. “What’s wrong? You’re not in danger. Didn’t you see?”

 

 

Bart tugged Christian’s foot into his lap and the criminal allowed it more out of curiosity than common sense. He was a little regretful that he was barefoot, though, as Bart pat his foot and massaged along his toes while holding the knife up in the other hand. “Don’t move, okay?”

 

 

“Wait, what?” Christian froze with impossibly wide eyes as Bart’s careful hands became a blur. He felt pressure scrape against the side of each of his toes, but he wasn’t sure what all was happening down there as his eyes failed to keep up with the motions. “See. No cuts, and I got each side.”

 

 

Christian’s chest heaved desperately as Bart’s pleased eyes shifted up to look at him. He could have easily skinned Christian’s entire foot in the moments it took the priest to process he’d even placed the blade against him to begin with.

 

 

“H-h-holy. F-f-fucking. Sh-shit.” Christian whimpered as Bart tilted his head in question. “You’re a goddamn serial killer. How did I not see this? H-how did I miss it? I fell for it. I fucking fell for that lonely artist bullshit hook, line, and sinker. You even got me to fucking chain myself to the wall. You-” The chains clinked as he pointed at him. “Y-you’re good, motherfucker. You’re really good.”

 

 

Christian only held Bart’s bewildered expression for a few seconds before he violently rolled toward the side table with the intention of pulling it towards him with his legs to get the keys. “W-what the fuck?!” Christian kicked back onto the bed and toward the wall when he suddenly found Bart in front of him pulling the table just out of his reach.

 

 

“Christian! You’re being ridiculous!”

 

 

“Th-then how did you know to go for the table? Why did you think I’d want to go for the table?” Christian scrambled to sit up and he thumped against the wall in his desperation to start prying at the metal stud he’d drilled there.

 

 

“Christian! Stop!” Bart was more concerned that Christian might harm him if he got free while he was still in a paranoid episode, but Christian’s whole body seized up when he felt Bart’s hands on him.

 

 

Christian whipped around to face him, and he looked down at his ankles where Bart had gently but firmly clasped his hands. “L-look at those fucking reflexes you crazy bastard! Who instinctively grabs for someone who’s moving away from them? I’ll tell you who. Fucking psycho killers.” Christian looked up to his face when Bart jerked his hands away as if the moral insult had stung his hands.

 

 

Christian gulped as Bart crossed his arms and glanced to his abandoned knife on the bed. “H-hey. Look. I didn’t mean that.” He laughed nervously, and the sound was highly unfamiliar to the artist. “Bart. Please don’t drill a hole in my head to lobotomize me, and then cut off my dick once I get boring and keep it in the freezer to eat later before you dissolve my body in a barrel of acid.”

 

 

“Christian.” Bart was temporarily distracted from his upset. “That is a very specific set of paranoias.” When Christian curled a little tighter and stared at him in terror, Bart pinched his forehead as he fought his tears. “That’s stupid anyway. I don’t have any barrels of acid. Where would one even get barrels of acid?” He frowned as he looked toward his dresser in thought. “Does paint thinner work the same to dissolve bodies?” Christian whimpered loud. “I don’t think it does.” The artist sighed before he sank to sit on the mattress. His shoulders quivered as he cried with the insecurity Christian was causing him.

 

 

“Hey.” Christian’s voice was far calmer as he nudged the side of Bart’s head with his foot. “Don’t turn your back on your hostage or let your guard down when you’re in range of their legs. Idiot.”

 

 

Bart whirled to look at him, and he sniffled as Christian met his eyes with an unreadable expression. The criminal’s posture looked far more relaxed as he studied the artist for a time.

 

 

“Don’t do that.” Christian hummed as he enjoyed the buzz he’d gotten from the adrenaline. “Don’t react the way you think society would want you to react in this situation. Show me who you really are. There’s no one here to see. Play with me. What am I gonna do? Call the cops? Scream for help? I’m your fucking bitch right now.”

 

 

“Y-you’re messing with me?” Bart wiped at his eyes hopefully. “You’re not really frightened?”

 

 

Christian settled more fully onto his back. The chains rattled as he shrugged his hands. “I am a little shook. You can be pretty creepy. It’s probably just because you’re my fucking hostage, I’ve been shitty to you, and now I’m in a potentially dangerous situation. Can you blame me?”

 

 

Bart appeared more than a little needy as he crawled over to straddle him. Christian’s body was far tenser than he’d been letting on, and he tried to force himself to relax as Bart’s fingers moved to unbutton his shirt. The actions were more courageous and calculated than the criminal had expected, and his chest rose and fell rapidly as the artist’s fingers brushed his skin while opening his shirt. Christian sucked in a breath when Bart pressed his palm to his chest over his heart to feel the desperate thrumming.

 

 

“You’re making me feel so guilty, Christian.”

 

 

“Guilty.” Christian’s voice was a little breathless. “Want me to pray for you?”

 

 

Bart locked his jaw, but he didn’t look away from the pulse pushing hard against the vein in Christian’s neck. “Maybe you try praying for yourself.”

 

 

“W-what?”

 

 

“What?” Bart cleared his throat. He’d meant it as a jab to defensively get Christian to stop acting like Bart was a bad person with his strange manipulations. He’d meant that Christian should self-reflect on his own mean behavior. He didn’t mean that Christian was in danger from something Bart might do to him. Now that he ran it through his head, however, his well-timed quip had sounded pretty hardcore. He searched Christian’s eyes as the criminal’s brows rose insecurely, and something dark in his heart decided not to clarify it for the priest.

 

 

Christian opened his mouth to speak again, but Bart smirked when the priest floundered over his words before giving up and just watching him instead. Did Christian really think he’d hurt him? Bart wasn’t sure, but he was fascinated with the way Christian’s throat moved as he swallowed heavily.

 

 

Christian tilted his head back when Bart leaned in to kiss his neck. The criminal groaned as Bart gently sucked against his skin, and his hips pressed up against him. Bart made a small noise of shock, but there was no way he could have missed that Christian had been hard for quite some time. He began to kiss his way down Christian’s chest, tickling his tongue between some of his ribs, and then working down his stomach.

 

 

Christian’s voice was dry and highly distracted, and he writhed against the tender attention. “You sure didn’t forget any of those placed I showed you.”

 

 

Bart hadn’t realized he’d been mapping him out in a way that could have been a threat. He’d only meant to be romantic, and possibly comforting. He wondered if Christian was really taking it that way or if he was still manipulating him, and the thought made his grab for his knife. He closed the blade when Christian stiffened, and he worked his way back up his body to hover over his lips. Christian’s eyes were heavy-lidded with lust as the artist nipped his bottom lip.

 

 

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Christian.”

 

 

“That why you picked up the knife?” The criminal hummed skeptically.

 

 

“I want you to love me,” Bart confessed as he tilted his head in anticipation of another kiss.

 

 

Christian’s lids fluttered closed in an extended blink, and he answered solemnly. “I do love you.” His focus landed on Bart’s lips until the artist dragged his hips down against him causing his eyes to roll back.

 

 

“How can I believe that right now? You’d say anything to save your life.”

 

 

Christian’s eyes flew open in a wide-eyed frown. He tried desperately to blink away the haze of arousal as he whispered, “Holy fuck.”

 

 

Bart sighed in exasperation. “That wasn’t a threat, Christian.”

 

 

“Kind of felt like one.”

 

 

Bart sat up and ran his hands along Christian’s skin. “So many goosebumps on this lovely canvas.”

 

 

Christian whined. “You know you’re holding a knife while you’re talking about my skin like it’s an object you wanna mark up, right?”

 

 

“I meant with paint. You should let me sometime.” Bart trailed the knife beneath the curve of Christian’s bottom rib. The priest shuddered, and Bart pressed his hips down again. The artist was completely aware of his blade, so when Christian arched up with a gasp, he skillfully adjusted the knife to keep harmlessly pulling it along his flesh while avoiding cutting into him with the priest’s movements.

 

 

Christian sucked in a breath when he realized he’d moved, and he looked down at his skin in concern. His eyes shifted up to search Bart’s face when the artist huffed humorously and continued his tracing. Drawing, Christian realized. The artist was imagining decorating him. The fingers of his other hand were sculpting him; memorizing every dip and angle like he was carefully etching the priest out of a lump of clay. Christian moaned at the worshipful attention and pulsed his hips.

 

 

The priest’s lips parted when Bart rolled his hips against him as he moved to look down at his face. The artist rested the blade against Christian’s cheek and feathered it along his face while giving him the same adoring expression he’d given the blade before. Christian swallowed noisily as he traced along his jaw.

 

 

“So how can I tell if you mean it?” Bart seemed more concerned with Christian’s skin than his answer.

 

 

“That’s easy.” Christian hissed and arched up as Bart moved against him again. He shuddered when his movements didn’t cause the artist to accidentally cut him. “You let me up.”

 

 

“But then you might hurt me.”

 

 

“Well. If I walk over there, pick up my gun, shoot you unceremoniously from across the room and leave, then you know I never cared.” Christian blinked serenely to calm him when Bart’s brows molded into a heartbroken expression. “If I use my hands, like with the knife or slowly strangling you to death while I rut up against you and kiss away your last breath, then you know I love you, but I’m too fucked up with my own selfish bullshit to deal with processing or accepting it.”

 

 

“Or you were angry with me and hate me enough to draw it out.” Bart sniffled.

 

 

Christian shook his head, stiffening when Bart incidentally pulled the blade up into his view as Bart moved the knife to avoid letting the criminal cut himself when he moved his head. “I wouldn’t murder you so personal unless you affected me.”

 

 

“So, is there any scenario here where I maybe don’t die?” Bart closed the blade and tossed it to the side.

 

 

“S-sure.” Christian moaned as Bart began to grind steadily against him. “If I don’t kill you, then you know I love you.” Christian’s head fell back as Bart continued the friction. “So, l-let me up, Bart. Baby. Let me up.” The chains clinked when he instinctively tried to reach for Bart’s hips when the artist pushed against him firmly enough for it to be clear that he was pleasuring himself with the motions. “Fffuck, baby. Let me...let me up...” He gasped for air when Bart retrieved the keys.

 

 

Bart straddled him again, but he worried his lip nervously as he looked from the chains to Christian’s lust-clouded eyes. “I...I’m scared to let you up, Christian.” He looked around the room insecurely as Christian closed his eyes to keep his patience.

 

 

“Or you could just keep torturing me.”

 

 

“Torturing you? I haven’t hurt you.”

 

 

Christian pumped up against him. “Can’t exactly get myself off to get the tension out of the way when you’ve got me locked up, sweetheart.”

 

 

Bart wasn’t quite sure he was trusting the pet names the con artist was seducing him with, but his heart kept twinging with neediness. He hugged his arms, but then dared another roll of his hips that made the criminal growl in warning.

 

 

“Gonna make me fill you up hard if you keep up with that shit, Bart.” Christian panted. “Fuck that. It’s too late. Let me up.”

 

 

Bart’s eyes widened and he hugged himself tighter. It’s not like he could indefinitely keep Christian chained up. He couldn’t just keep a man hostage in his home forever. What had he done? Bart chewed at his thumbnail before glancing up at Christian with his best apologetic and flirtatious batting lashes. His fingers dropped to the hem of his shirt, and Christian stilled in his wriggling to look between Bart’s face and his hands.

 

 

Bart took a breath to steady himself before he pulled his shirt over his head. Christian was watching him with an uncomfortable intensity, then, as Bart moved to unfasten his own pants. He avoided Christian’s eyes as he shifted to remove his clothing, but he could see the criminal’s stomach moving with the effort of breathing as Bart settled back in on top of him.

 

 

Bart drew his hands along his bare thighs in what he hoped was an enticing gesture, and he was encouraged when Christian groaned in agitation. The artist’s talented fingers curled around his own length, and his head dropped back as he began to stroke himself for Christian’s eyes to see.

 

 

“Fuuuck...f-fucking...sadist.” Christian whined, glancing up to Bart’s mouth as it fell open wantonly while lazily working on himself. “Bart.” He choked on his words. “Please. Pleeese...” The chains clinked against the wall as he shook his fists. “Bart!”

 

 

The artist jumped and snapped his head down to look at him when Christian’s tone became threatening. His eyes darted over to the knife, and Christian closed his eyes as he adjusted his body language and tone to be more comforting.

 

 

“Bart. Baby. I’m not gonna hurt you. I love you. Let me up.” He opened his eyes to find the artist watching him warily. His hand moved hesitantly between his legs as he considered Christian’s words. Christian sighed in frustration and closed his eyes again. His hands clasped over his head as if he was going to formally pray. “Please, god. Please strike down these chains and allow me to screw the holy heavenly fuck out of Bart’s tight little ass.”

 

 

“Christian!” Bart was blushing furiously. “You aren’t supposed to pray for things like that, are you? You’re supposed to ask for things you _need_ and not frivolous things you want to-”

 

 

“I _need_ you.” Christian swore. “I fucking need you!” He pressed up against him. “Besides, I’m praying to you. You’re the one who’s got everything I need right now. You’re my god, baby. Let me out of these before I get too worked up to pace myself. Fffuuuck...” Christian whined as Bart leaned in to grind against him while kissing along his neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...Bart...please...please...baby...please...”

 

 

“I can’t now. You’ll hurt me, Christian.”

 

 

“Fucking no I won’t. I swear to god. Bart. I fucking swear I won’t hurt you. I got you, baby. I’ll take care of you. Please. Pleeease!”

 

 

Christian’s hands were quaking violently as Bart finally reached for the keys. Bart’s entire body was shaking just as hard as he released one of his wrists. The artist gasped in fright when Christian’s free hand immediately snatched the key from him and efficiently crammed it in the lock of the other wrist like he’d locked and released them a hundred times.

 

 

“Oh, god!” Bart froze up and his hands flew to cover his face when Christian rapidly sat up and clamped an arm around his waist to keep him from moving away from him. Christian’s other hand moved to dig through the organizer, but Bart couldn’t process that he was reaching for the Vaseline and not any number of things to hurt him with. The artist sobbed as Christian flipped him onto his back and pushed his hands away. “Christian! Christian-”

 

 

The priest was kissing him, then, as he fumbled with the zipper of his pants and pushed them down his legs. Bart felt his naked body pressing more firmly between his legs, but he cried out in combination of pleasure and terror when Christian’s fingers wrapped around his throat. The artist trembled as Christian squeezed gently while capturing his mouth in a consuming kiss. His hand moved from his neck to rest tenderly against his cheek, and then he was running his palm down Bart’s body and lifting to his knees to give himself room to work him open.

 

 

“Relax.” Christian coaxed, desperately short of breath. He clumsily opened the Vaseline. “You need to trust me, Bart.” He was holding himself up on one arm, and that arm was vibrating dangerously with the effort of controlling his passion. His forehead thumped against Bart’s, and he clenched his eyes shut as his fingers began the same dance he’d begun in the shower.

 

 

Bart was surprised to find he was more entranced by Christian’s loss of composure than frightened by it. He felt so overwhelmingly desired. Christian stroked his finger inside him, and Bart arched up.

 

 

“Oh...okay...C-Christian. I th-think I could...I’m ready.”

 

 

Christian laughed without humor, and it sounded a lot more like he was crying. The priest ignored him with a weak curse and worked another finger into him instead. The criminal’s body had tensed with the effort of not moving on Bart’s words, and he hummed knowingly when Bart whimpered in discomfort at the intrusion.

 

 

“Touch yourself.” Christian instructed in a broken voice. Bart did as he said just as the priest angled properly inside him and began scissoring his fingers.

 

 

“C-Christian! N-now! I want it!”

 

 

Christian seemed to believe him that time. Either that, or he had no more resolve to hold out any longer. Christian hovered to look down at him as he positioned himself to take him. Bart had never imagined he could feel so wanted in his life as Christian groaned so low and long while pushing into him. The artist clung to him for support as Christian pushed deep into him before stopping to give him time to adjust.

 

 

Christian gulped in air, and the stillness of his body made his trembling more noticeable. “You are...by far...my favorite god.” He didn’t give Bart a chance to reprimand him for the compliment. He rocked his hips experimentally whispering encouragements to the artist in the few seconds it took him to find the right angle.

 

 

When Bart’s pupils dilated and his mouth fell open, he knew he’d succeeded, and he repeated the motions. “Baby. T-touch yourself. I’m not gonna last with what you fucking put me through.” 

 

 

It took Bart a moment to convince himself to let go of Christian, but as the criminal started pumping into him more urgently, he felt a heat pooling in his stomach that was too hard to ignore. Bart was so close when Christian’s breath began to stutter, and his eyes glossed over. The priest cursed as his hips snapped a little too violently for several thrusts. He sank his mouth onto Bart’s as he shoved himself deep and stilled.

 

 

Bart swallowed the priest’s satisfied moan. He felt Christian pulsing his release into his body, and it was more than enough to push the artist over the edge with him. Christian moaned again when he felt Bart’s body seizing up as he climaxed to Christian coming in him.

 

 

“C-Christian?” Bart arched up when Christian’s hand returned to his throat. The criminal kissed him again as he pressed into his body. Bart would have been afraid over Christian’s threat of choking him to death, but he was far too exhausted and satiated to care too much about dying to a man who loved him too much to let him live. He still sighed in relief when Christian slid his hand up behind his head to coax him into a deeper kiss.

 

 

They made out for a time before Christian finally rolled off him. He didn’t take his hands away from the artist, however, and Bart was perfectly okay with that as he burrowed closer to him.

 

 

“See.” Christian’s thumb feathered against Bart’s back. “It can be intimidating to give someone the keys after you know you’ve fucked with them so much; after you’ve let them see who you really are.”

 

 

Bart hummed into his chest. “That’s beautiful, Christian; the way you phrased it.”

 

 

Christian huffed skeptically. “Yeah. Whatever. You-” He began a comeback insult. “You’re beautiful.”

 

 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Bart snorted.

 

 

“Didn’t think it through well enough. Somebody chained me up and took a knife to me and then fucked my brains out.”

 

 

“You should eat more than you did, Christian. What can we fix that will make you actually eat it?”

 

 

“Trying to fatten me up for when you put my prime cuts in the freezer now?”

 

 

Bart sighed halfheartedly. “Christian. No.”

 

 

“You’ll still have to do something with my bones.”

 

 

“Clairvoyance is staying somewhere with pigs nearby, I think. They’ll eat everything.” Bart smirked when Christian jolted before he caught himself and relaxed. “But I’d rather use them artistically. Maybe scrape out the marrow and make a mobile of them to hang over my bed so I can listen to the comforting hollow clinks in the breeze of a box fan in the summer.”

 

 

“You’re just a little bit messed up.” Christian pressed his lips against his forehead and pulled him closer.

 

 

He wasn’t surprised that the artist was so creepy once he’d gotten to know him. He’d have to have been to have taken everything Christian put him through as some kind of courting ritual. Maybe Christian could be more lenient with himself as he learned to treat the artist right since he knew they were capable of truly understanding each other. The priest was eternally grateful for the beautiful psychopath in his arms.

 

 


End file.
